I find myself unable to trace the specific origin of my first hearing about Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw. The thought has persisted in my mind tonight, though I cannot explain why. It might have been a casual mention from an acquaintance years back, or a passage in a book left unread, or perhaps just a muffled voice from a poor-quality recording. Names tend to surface in this way, arriving without any sense of occasion. They merely arrive and then refuse to leave.
It’s late—the kind of late where the house gets that specific sort of quiet. There’s a cup on the table next to me that’s gone totally cold, and I remain still, simply staring at it. Regardless, my reflections on him are not about academic doctrines or historical records. I just remember the way voices drop to a whisper whenever people speak of him. To be perfectly sincere, that is the most accurate description I can offer.
The reason why some figures carry such inherent solemnity is unclear. It’s not loud. It’s just... a pause in the room. A slight adjustment in how everyone sits. With him, it always felt like he didn't rush. Ever. He seemed capable of remaining in the midst of discomfort until a state of balance was reached. Then again, perhaps I am merely projecting my own thoughts; it is something I tend to do.
I possess a faint memory—it could be from a video I saw long ago— where he spoke with such profound slowness. He left these vast, quiet gaps between each of his sentences. At the start, I assumed the audio was malfunctioning, but it was just his natural pace. He was waiting, allowing his speech to resonate or fade as it would. I can still feel the initial impatience I felt, and the subsequent regret it caused. I am unsure if that reveals more about his nature or my state of mind.
In that world, respect is just part of the air. However, he seemed to hold that dignity without any hint of ostentation. There were no dramatic actions, only a sense of unbroken continuity. Like a person looking after a flame that has existed since long before memory. I am aware that this comparison is poetic, even if I did not mean it to be. It is simply the visualization that recurs in my mind.
At times, I ponder the experience of living in that manner. Having people observe you for decades, comparing their own lives to your silence, or your manner of eating, or your lack of reaction to external stimuli. It appears to be an exhausting way to live, one I would not desire. I don't think he "wanted" it either, but I don't actually know.
In the distance, a motorcycle passes, its sound fading rapidly. I keep pondering how the word “respected” feels insufficient. It does not carry the right meaning; authentic respect is often heavy. It’s heavy. It makes you stand up a little straighter without you even knowing why.
My purpose is not to provide an explanation website of his identity. I would be unable to do so even if I made the attempt. I'm just observing how particular names remain in the memory. The way they exert a silent influence and then return to memory years afterward when the room is quiet and you aren't really doing anything important at all.